by Sarah McCoy
“While I was over this way …” He scratched his head. “I figured I’d check in on you. Sergeant Lee said you were back at work.”
Elsie nodded. For one of the first times she could recall, she was shy for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
“So how’re you feeling?”
“Better.”
“No complications after our visit? The bleeding stopped?”
Elsie nodded and looked away, his words astringent and the miscarriage still too raw in her body and memory.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He stepped closer.
Her heart sped up.
“Well, you look mighty improved. Not to say you didn’t look beautiful before.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you on your way home?” He gestured to her bicycle.
“Ja.”
“Being your doctor, I don’t think I can let you exert yourself like that yet.”
“It is very close,” she explained.
“That may be the case but still. How’s about you let me drive you? The medic jeep’s over there, and I got the keys.” He jingled his pocket. “I can fit your bike in the back, no problem.”
The jeep was parked in the R&R Center’s guest lot around front of the building. She could have ridden home in the time it took to get there and load the bicycle, but that didn’t matter. The ride would be a relief to her feet, and she liked being with the handsome Doctor Meriwether. He smelled clean of mint and shirt starch, scents that whispered of better days.
Their fingers overlapped when he reached for the handlebars. Elsie smiled.
“So,” Doctor Meriwether began as he lifted the bike into the trunk. “How did you and Sergeant Lee get introduced?”
Elsie pushed a loose strand back into her braid. “When the Amis—Americans came. He was outside my family bakery. We had bread that would go stale anyhow.” She shrugged. “I gave it to them.”
“Very big of you.” He swung open the passenger door and she climbed in. “Most people around here would’ve given the bread to the pigs before an American.”
“We don’t have pigs,” quipped Elsie.
Doctor Meriwether came round to the driver’s seat. “Fair enough.” He winked and sputtered the ignition. “So you’re the daughter of a baker?”
“Ja, and I am a baker, too,” she corrected.
They started down the road. “I’ll have to try your goods. Where I’m from, it’s most only skillet cornbread.”
Elsie had never heard of such a thing, but thought perhaps it was an English-German misinterpretation. “Where are you from in America?”
“A little state called Texas.”
A flash of lightning zipped from her navel to her chin. “Texas ovenbaked beans?”
“Yeah, you heard of ’em?”
While cleaning out Tobias’s crawl space, she’d found her secret items thoughtfully lined along the interior. Such trivial tokens of her childhood now took on meaning far beyond the material—because Tobias had guarded them, slept beside them, shared in them. She moved all the items, including the American advertisement, into a corroded cacao tin under her bed. The only thing missing was the Robert Frost book. She’d run her hands over every nook in the crawl space, but it was nowhere to be found. God is a poet, Tobias had told her once, and she believed.
“Made in the USA,” she recited. “You must be a Texas cowboy.”
“I guess so,” he said, then laughed so true and unbridled that she couldn’t help joining.
They drove faster down the lane. The wind whipped over their faces, smelling of nearby honeysuckle and glacier water. He turned down the wrong road, but Elsie kept quiet. They’d get home eventually. She liked being at his side. He made her feel more than she was, bigger than Germany or America or all the war between.
When they finally arrived on her street, Elsie had him pull up to the bäckerei doors.
“Doktor Meriwether,” she began.
“—Albert. Al,” he said.
“Al.” Even the sound of him was pleasant, like a music note. “I very much appreciate you …”
“My pleasure,” he said while unloading her bike.
“Not only for the ride.” Elsie looked down at her shoes. “I thank you for everything.”
“Elsie.” It was the first time he called her by her first name. It rolled off his tongue, slow and lyrical. “You and uh—Sergeant Lee. Is he your … I mean to say, are you two—” He stopped and gently kicked the bike tire with his toe. “Aw, never mind.”
Elsie faced him. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight. “No,” she said. The foreign word rang out open-ended. “We were but …” She shook her head. “It is difficult to explain.”
Robby embodied independence: strange, youthful, and exhilarating. But in the many months that she’d known him, she’d never felt the way she did in five minutes with Doctor Meriwether. With Al, she felt freedom, and that was vastly different from all that had come before.
A lazy breeze blew the overhanging bäckerei sign. It squeaked on its hinges, and they both looked up.
“Would it be all right if I came by tomorrow—to grab a bite to eat and visit a spell?” asked Al.
She knew her papa would never approve of this dark-eyed American, but not one part of her cared. She was being true to herself. The time for hiding was over.
Silhouetted under the starry sky, Al’s face was patient and earnest.
“I would like that very much,” she said and decided she’d make him sunflower seed rolls the next day. The first new harvest had just come in.
FORT BLISS
EL PASO, TEXAS
FEBRUARY 10, 1947
Dear Mutti,
Texas is a strange place. Different from Garmisch. The mountains rise naked against the blue and when the sun sets, it paints the sky every color you can imagine and many you cannot. It is never cold or dark. Even in the night, the moon is so full and bright you’d think it was the face of God. I like it, though I miss you and Papa most desperately.
We have settled into our house on the military grounds. Fort Bliss, they call it. I hope it lives up to its name. The people are friendly and help me around as best they can. There are no bäckereis or metzgereis in town. I heated canned baked beans every night for the first two weeks, but man cannot live on beans alone! My neighbor is from a place called Merry-land and she says that the women buy their meats and food supplies at “The Commissary.” She is taking me to this place tomorrow so I may buy flour, butter, and yeast. I plan to bake rolls as soon as I can. My stomach growls thinking about them now.
I went to the Post Exchange today to purchase wooden bowls, mixing spoons, and a baking tray in preparation. We haven’t anything to our name. When I paid for the items, the man at the till said, “Thank you, Mrs. Meriwether” and for a moment, I’d forgotten that was me. Mrs. Meriwether. It has a nice sound, like a greeting. Don’t you agree? It rings of newness, and I can’t wait for the first time I introduce myself as such.
How is home? No word from Hazel still, I suspect. A week ago, Al and I were at the fabric store picking material for curtains when I swore I heard Hazel’s voice beyond the linen bolts. I raced around expecting to find her but, of course, it was not. My disappointment was so great, I set to trembling on the spot, apologized profusely to the woman, and dragged Al out as fast as my legs could carry me. I have not given up that we will one day be together again.
How is Papa? I deeply regret our harsh parting. I pray for his forgiveness and acceptance of us. I miss him and wish he understood that the world has changed and Germany with it. No one is good or bad by birth or nation or religion. Inside, we are all masters and slaves, rich and poor, perfect and flawed. I know I am, and he is, too. We love despite ourselves. Our hearts betray our minds. Al is a good man and I love him, Mutti. That is a gift I do not take for granted.
I’ll write you as often as I can. I hope you reply, though I will hold no ill feelings if you do not. I understand. Still, you are my mutti. I love you, and so I wi
ll continue to put pen to paper.
Eternally yours, Elsie
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
FEBRUARY 27, 1947
My dear Elsie,
Enclosed is a photograph of us. Papa had old film developed. He told me to throw this one in the garbage, still bitter over everything, but I could not. You are my child, and I will not lose both my daughters. It is too much in one lifetime. I send it to you instead.
I was happy for your letter from Texas, USA. On the same day, we received news from Hazel’s friend Ovidia. She claims that Hazel’s daughter was taken to the Waisenhaus orphanage in Munich. They call her Lillian. Papa and I are going there next Saturday, though I am unsure of the outcome. The whereabouts of the twin boy and Hazel continue to be a mystery.
Dear, I understand that love makes us do things we can’t explain or justify. So I write and hope that you will return to us someday. I often think of you and Hazel as girls whispering secrets and playing dress-up in your room. Too quickly those days went. Only in heaven will we all be together once more. This is certain.
With great love, Mutti
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
MARCH 8, 1947
Dear Elsie,
We have collected Hazel’s daughter, Lillian, from Waisenhaus. She closely resembles you and Hazel when you were young. It is a strangeness to find ourselves here once more—two young children in our keep. It brings me great joy to have her with us. Even your papa’s spirits have improved since her arrival. She is a pleasant child, strong and of a happy nature.
We have decided not to tell Lillian of her paternity since we have no documentation of the man’s identity. Although Peter Abend is Julius’s known father, the Lebensborn Program listed him under Hazel’s surname. Thus, both children will be Schmidt. It is easier this way. The truth is far too cumbersome. While Julius is at an age of remembering, I pray Lillian never knows. The matter is irreparable, and no good can come of acknowledging it. The Thousand-Year Reich was a fantasy to which your papa still clings. I see it more clearly now and am ashamed of my past foolishness. What Papa and I do agree on is that these are not children of the Fatherland. They are ours.
With great love, Mutti
SCHMIDT BÄCKEREI
56 LUDWIGSTRASSE
GARMISCH, GERMANY
DECEMBER 23, 1955
Lillian sat reading The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. A British pilot on winter holiday had given it to her. He’d read it twice and was looking to free up space in his pack before returning home to London. Lillian was a perpetual bookworm and wanted the novel desperately as an early Christmas present. Her opa agreed to the gift for educational purposes only—so Lillian could improve her English. She was the lone family member who could properly communicate with the American and English patrons shuttling in and out the bäckerei door.
“Lillian, put that book down and help Opa finish up,” instructed her oma. “Strong, young hands like yours might be exactly what he needs.”
Lillian sighed and shut the book. Frodo and his friends had just set off to Rivendell. She was heavyhearted to leave the grand adventure and return to her mundane world of rising yeast dough and day-old bread.
Oma covered marzipan sugarplums with dainty strips of parchment so they wouldn’t be peppered with dead fruit flies by morning. In the kitchen, Opa still worked by dusky candle; some of the wax had splashed against the glass luminary, further marginalizing its light. She slid her fingers to the electric wall switch for the overhead bulb but then thought better and let it be.
She watched him from the shadows as he rolled the molasses dough into a smooth, thick skin across the baking board. He took up a giant heart-shaped cookie cutter, positioned it precisely, and pressed down.
For the last-minute Christmas customers, they already had over a dozen lebkuchen, iced with frilly edges and piped with Christmas greetings. But the ones he made now were not for anybody with a deutsche mark to spare. These were special hearts—the gingerbread Opa made each Christmas with their names embroidered in icing.
Opa hummed “Silent Night” as he cut and laid the cookies on the baking sheet. The names of her family: Max, Luana, Julius, Lillian, Hazel, Peter, Elsie, and Albert. He always made eight, though the last four stayed high up on the tree, uneaten and growing hard as slate.
Her parents, Hazel and Peter, had died during the war, or so her Oma told her. But children talk as children do, especially in small towns like Garmisch. When she was still in bloomers, the truth of her paternity was already being whispered about on the playground. It was her schoolmate Richelle Spreckels, the daughter of Trudi Abend Spreckels, who finally broke the news in a rage after being tagged out in a high-stakes game of Fangen.
“It’s not fair!” Richelle cried. “You’re not supposed to be here! Nobody even knows who your papa is!”
The group of children had hushed around Lillian. The game of chase abruptly ended.
“My papa is Peter and my mother is Hazel!” Lillian defended.
“Your mother may be Hazel Schmidt, but my mamma says Peter Abend is not your papa! She knows. She is his sister!” And with that, Richelle had scooped up a wad of soft mud and flung it, streaking Lillian’s smocked, pink dress. A handful of surrounding children had tittered.
She walked home muddy and shamed, and while Oma cleaned the dress as best she could, the stains remained.
“Who did this to you and why?” Oma had asked, but Lillian refused to tell, not wanting to call Oma a liar and afraid to hear the truth come from her mouth. It pricked her deep within, the way the truth does, and she didn’t want to believe until she had facts to back it up.
But from that day forward, Richelle’s accusation remained in the back of her mind—“You’re not supposed to be here.” This became her quest: to find out exactly who she was and where she was supposed to be. Lillian made few friends in school, preferring the company of her oma and opa, the friendly customers of the bakery, the faraway characters in her storybooks, and her tante Elsie’s letters.
Elsie and Albert lived in the United States, a place called Texas where cowboys rode white stallions and Indians made colorful shawls dyed with berry juices. Those were the stories from Elsie’s letters. They were full of adventure and word pictures: the desert sun oozing into the horizon like a giant fried egg; lizards with iridescent green scales lounging in the shade of porcupine cacti; the Rio Grande River snaking through the sand dunes, alive with reptiles and water fowl come to quench their thirsts in the only basin for miles. When she was very young, Lillian begged Oma to read from the letters at bedtime. Under the whispered spell of storytime, she dreamed of Elsie and wondered how the small vanillekipferl moon hanging over her Zugspitze could possibly be the same great spotlight in the Texan sky.
Everything Elsie described sounded bigger and more wondrous than anything she’d ever seen in Germany. Sometimes Lillian could barely contain her excitement when Elsie wrote about galloping on horseback across the plains, a dust storm at her back and thunder clapping above. She’d squealed aloud under her eiderdown, and Oma would shush her not to wake Opa. Early on, Oma warned Lillian not to mention the letters to anyone. “Some things are secrets,” she explained and Lillian agreed. She treasured this confidence between them.
Opa never spoke of Elsie, and before her brother Julius went off to boarding school, he told Lillian that he doubted Elsie would ever set foot in Germany again. A stern young man, she’d always been afraid of crossing him. He rarely came home from Munich anymore, and though she’d never say it aloud, Lillian didn’t miss him. She did miss Elsie, though. An aunt she’d never met in the flesh. She confessed to Oma that one of her nightly prayers was for Elsie to walk in the bäckerei door. Oma said she prayed the same thing.
Whenever an unknown woman entered the shop, Lillian’s heart would pitter-patter so that she could barely take the order; i
nevitably, the customer would smile at her flightiness, pay, and leave. Lillian wished she knew what the adult Elsie looked like so she could avoid such crescendos of hope. There was only one photograph of her mother and aunt in the house—a picture Oma kept of the girls sitting beneath the branches of a cherry tree. Lillian had studied the image so thoroughly that she knew the exact count of freckles on her mother’s cheek, the exact number of teeth in Elsie’s smile. For the rest, she relied on the letters.
In them, Elsie was kind, loving, and fearless; and she knew more stories about her mother than anyone in the world. She wrote about the cherry tree photograph, sharing Hazel’s secret wishes and how they came to be; of Hazel’s love of music and beautiful dresses; how she was the most graceful woman in Garmisch and the most faithful sister. It made Lillian long for a sister of her own, and she often pretended the Toni doll Elsie sent from America was her younger sibling. Oma told her to be grateful for her brother Julius, and she would’ve found that easy to do if he had shown an ounce of sibling affection. So she clung to what she knew for certain: half of her was unquestionably Schmidt.
Opa put cheesecloth over the cutouts and set the tray aside. Though he never spoke their names, Elsie and Albert appeared on the tree branches every year, reminding Lillian and everyone else that despite it all, they were family.
Opa turned. “Ach, Lillian! You surprised me.”
“I’m sorry, Opa. Oma told me to help you.”
“Doch!” He clapped his hands together. “As you can see, I’m finished. We just have to put away these scraps.” He began to pull the remnants of the gingerbread into a ball. “Come, help me.”
Lillian went to his side. He smelled of cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom, and she leaned close to his side; he smelled like Christmas.
“Here, have a taste.” He pinched a piece of dough and popped it in her mouth.